


Let Me Entertain You

by l_am_adlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, Broadway, F/M, Gypsy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:08:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9375893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_am_adlocked/pseuds/l_am_adlocked
Summary: "Years after the Woman was last seen in Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson receive anonymous tickets to fly to New York at the service of a mysterious singer who wants to hire them for a case."Summary written word-for-word from Tumblr (loveholic198.tumblr.com).Inspired by a GIFset made by loveholic198.tumblr.com inhttp://loveholic198.tumblr.com/post/155989553839/nine-years-after-the-woman-was-last-seen-in-baker





	1. The Musical Theatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend you watch "Gypsy West End 2015: Let Me Entertain You (Gypsy Strip Tease)" in YouTube with that exact name. It's where I got the lines written here.
> 
> Bolded words are actual lines in the musical.  
> Bolded and Italicised are actual lyrics of the song.

 

 **Photographs made by me.**    
See more from i-am-adlocked.tumblr.com

* * *

John and Sherlock walk away from yet, another finished adventure which involved a train station (John will always question why train stations where ever made if it keeps making his life miserable), a group of ninjas, fighting with using nothing but a chair and a bottle of water, and some tuna. John still has no idea how they had ended up in such a predicament.

"D'you think George's going to appreciate our little present?" Sherlock asks him, smirking as they walk through the Underground.

"George?" John asks. Just as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, John sighs. "It's _Greg_ , and I don't think he shares the same sense of humour as us."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I don't understand why people can be so boring."

John's lip twitches upward at the small conclusion that he is not part of the  _boring_ class of people.

"People aren't all boring, you know," John tries and fails.

"Yes, they are," Sherlock argues.

"Yeah... Yes, they are," John replies, a small laughter coming out of his mouth.

At that moment, a vibration makes itself known to him in his pocket. He takes out his phone to see what had alarmed it.

"Sherlock?" John starts as they continue to walk out.

"Hmm?" Sherlock answers.

"There's an email for us... from my blog," John informs him, quickly reading the content of the message.

Sherlock, on the other hand, rolls his eyes at the fact that people  _love_ John's blog so much but don't appreciate  _his_ actual blog... especially the essay on the two-hundred and forty-three types of Tobacco Ash.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks in annoyance since John hasn't talked for five minutes already.

"A client sent us tickets to New York for a show," John says, finally looking up from his phone to look at Sherlock.

"A show?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, a musical, actually."

Sherlock hums. "A Broadway musical, I'm hoping?"

"Hopin—you listen to... _showtunes_?" John asks in surprise.

"It's hardly a surprise to you, isn't it?" Sherlock comments.

"Yes, well, sometimes I forget how much of a public school boy you are," John replies. Before Sherlock gives a snarky clever comeback, John continues. "The musical's called Gypsy, apparently. I haven't watched that before."

Sherlock hums. "I do like Patti Lupone's version of _Rose_ in the 2008 Revival of that musical—brilliant voice power."

John continues to stare at him.

"What?" Sherlock asks. 

"Nothing."

"What's the date of our tickets?"

"Let me see... hmm... it's tomorrow..." John whispers. "It's tomorrow," he says louder.

"Interesting. Did she say her name?" Sherlock suddenly asks.

"Who?" John asks.

"The client," Sherlock explains with a huff.

"' _She_ '?" John questions with confusion, looking back at the email to check if there was any indication that the client is female.

"Obviously."

John sighs, rolls his eyes, and mutters, "Obviously," before clearing his throat. "Er, no, _she_ didn't write _her_ name."

"Interesting."

"Why is it interesting?"

"Because the main characters of this musical are mostly female. An identifying male lead wouldn't bother giving us a ticket for a show. He would have wanted us to get the job done. Most definitely, if the  _actor_ would give tickets as a token of appreciation, it would be given _after_ we had sold this case. No, this is an invitation—a small gift or encouragement, depending on the _actress_. In the balance of probability, an identifying male client—no matter how famous—would send money as a form of incentive. Money is often the incentive between two male participants. Hence, female client."

"That's not really saying why it is interesting."

"An identifying female theatre performer playing a minor character would not bother giving us a ticket either. She wouldn't give tickets to men who would see the main leads—main _female_ leads—their full attention. Performers love it when all eyes are on them—when all the attention is placed on them—"

"Like you?" John asks but Sherlock either ignores him or didn't hear him. John suspects the latter.

"—and so, in giving us tickets to a show where she _is_ performing, one could only conclude that she has one of the biggest roles in the musical. So why not bother us with her name? Why not tell us who she is? She is one of the stars of the musicals. Why hide her identity if she will reveal it anyway?"

"Maybe she's like you," John replies.

Sherlock pauses mid-deduction to stare at John—looking around to realise that they are already walking on the streets of London instead of going through the Underground. "Like _me_?" he asks.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, "a tad bit too dramatic." Sherlock glares at John briefly. "I don't judge her—she's a theatre performer. Drama is in her nature."

"Are you having a joke?" Sherlock asks.

"Not at all," John replies sarcastically.

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly and rolls his eyes, continuing walking. "What else did she say about the case?" Sherlock asks.

"Nothing."

Sherlock nods. "As I suspected—vague. She'll tell us her case when we get there. The tickets are not an incentive. They are an assurance."

"Assurance of what?"

"That we are expected to be there. It's a demand—not a request."

John looks at Sherlock—who has not noticed that he has his game-face on. "We're going to New York, then?" John asks.

"Most definitely."

* * *

"Have you watched a musical in Broadway before?" John asks as both he and Sherlock settle down on their seats amongst the Orchestra Seats in front of the stage provided by their client. They are actually sitting on the very centre of the Orchestra Seat—much to John's excitement since he has never watched a musical or play this close before.

They have arrived just this morning. John had to convince the hotel that he and Sherlock definitely do  _not_ need just one bed in one room...

"Surprisingly enough, no," Sherlock replies, still reading whatever it is he is reading in his phone, held in his right hand.

"Oh?" John asks.

"It was always London Theatre or any theatre in England. I didn't have time to watch a Broadway musical when I went to Florida," Sherlock replies.

John nods. "Ahhh, yes, the Mr. Hudson case."

Sherlock smirks at the memory. "Yes," he answers vaguely.

"Is that why you're so giddy right now?" John asks, looking at Sherlock's fidgeting left hand, and his shaking leg. He had also noticed Sherlock humming the whole time which he assumes is the music in this musical.

"' _Giddy_ '?" Sherlock asks, all the fidgeting stopping since he has focused on glaring at John.

"Well, you're like a little boy about to be given ice cream he craves so much," John tells him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffs. John sniggers as Sherlock practically jumps up in excitement when the orchestra starts playing the Overture.

* * *

**TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER**

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock doesn't comment about the child actors or all of the actors—much less, the plot of the whole musical. That is, until, he turns his head to see Sherlock frowning at the stage.

"Sherlock?" John whispers as they watch the whole sequence with the children dancing on stage.

Thankfully, the song is loud enough and the audience are quite engaged with the little girl dancing in the middle of the stage, with some other children as back-up. Even John has to admit that children these days are growing more and more talented each day.

"John?" Sherlock replies.

"Do you think the actress playing _Rose_ is the one asking for us?"

"No," Sherlock replies, just as the said old actress enters the stage for a few seconds.

"Why not?"

"Not once has she acknowledged or gave any sign that she knows we are here."

"Maybe it's just her, not breaking in character."

"There were plenty of times when she had looked at the audience. It is easy enough to pretend to look at us as any other audiences but she never did. If she really gave us the tickets, she would be aware of where we are sitting. No, I believe our client will be showing up later and soon."

"But I thought you said she'd be a lead?"

"Some leads show up late. This musical is about Gypsy Rose Lee—a burlesque entertainer—and her mother. There is a high amount of chance that the client is either the namesake of this musical— _Louise_ or _Gypsy Rose Lee_ , or her sister, _June_."

"Who do you think is more likely?" John asks.

Sherlock chuckles. "We'll find out very soon," he says, just as the lights on stage flicker on and off frequently—giving John a mild headache—but he noticed that the small child actress had changed into a much older actress.

Taking Sherlock's advice, John observes the older  _June_ actress. She is facing the centre of the stage—just where Sherlock and John are—but she is looking at the general audience and not specifically  _at_ them. 

Conclusion: She isn't the client.

The lights turn off.

This ends the dance sequence. The audience applaud—so does John, but not Sherlock, who is still scowling.

The lights turn on.

An alarm clock on stage goes off and an actress turns it off. John observes closely.

"Sh—Sher—Sherlock?" John stammers quietly upon seeing the actress on stage, considering the silence in the theatre.

John turns to see Sherlock—frozen with his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide, and completely still as he stares at the actress.

"Is—is _she_ our client?" John whispers. The old woman beside him shushes him pointedly but John ignores her, not caring about anything else except what the hell is going on.

Sherlock's mouth closes and he swallows, an odd sort of fire appearing in Sherlock's eyes as he continues to look at the stage. John pays no mind at the continuing dialogue, but focuses on his best friend.

"Yes," Sherlock finally replies in a breathless manner.

"Is—is that...?"

"Irene Adler," Sherlock says in a breathless whisper.

"Did you kn—?" John was about to ask but Sherlock beats him to it.

"No," Sherlock says in a lower tone.

"Sh—she looks so..."

"Different?"

"Innocent."

Sherlock hums as Irene Adler starts to sing on stage.

Both men watch in wonder as Irene Adler, the dominatrix, becomes her character— _Louise_ , wears baggy clothing, acts awkwardly, talks with a childish voice, and goes around without confidence. John feels like he is in an entirely new universe. His own brain cannot comprehend that this is, in fact,  _the_ Irene Adler—the same person who met them in her birthday suit.

Then again, that's what makes a good actress, isn't it? It completely removes the actor and replaces him or her with the character. Looking at  _Louise_ , right now, he can't see any traces of Irene Adler in her. It's amazing... but...

John has also noticed that Irene Adler had not looked in their general direction yet... but she could only be the client, right?

* * *

**FORTY-NINE MINUTES LATER**

While some of the audience leave their seats to go to the loo, John turns his head to look at a still wide-eyed Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John starts.

This seems to snap the detective back to reality, since he finally blinks and leans back on his seat, slightly looking down and clasping his hands together. Sherlock emits a heavy sigh, pursing his lips.

"So, how did it happen?" John asks.

"What?"

"How is she alive?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. Of course, only he could have saved her.

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because she's there, on stage... I'm guessing you haven't seen each other in a long time."

"Why would you _guess_ that?"

"Because you're so surprised to see her again."

Sherlock turns to look at John at that point, and looks away again. John smiles to himself slightly.

"So, what do you think?" he asks Sherlock.

"Of what?"

"The musical."

"I've already watched it before."

"Not with _her_ in it."

Sherlock hums in reply, nodding. His eyes, then, suddenly glazes over with something as he whispers, "She has the voice of an angel, John [1]."

"What?" John snaps up at that admission, tilting his head at his friend, who had jump up at his own words, and trying to look away.

"Nothing."

"No, _Sherlock_ , what was that?" John asks amusedly as the detective starts fidgeting on his seat, trying to look away.

"I'm going to—er—"

Sherlock stands up and leaves the theatre. John laughs in his seat and doesn't comment at the fact that Sherlock arrived fifteen minutes later—precisely when the lights turn off again and the musical starts—giving John no time to comment anything.

* * *

**THIRTY-FOUR MINUTES LATER**

**"Mama... I'm pretty... I'm a pretty girl, mama,"** Irene Adler states in a very childish and innocent voice that still makes both Baker Street boys wonder. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, of course, to anyone, but he can't help but feel immense wonder at how precisely she can act innocently when she is  _the_ devil.

But here, she is an innocent teen, wearing a pink conservative gown.

They watch as awkward  _Louise_  stands in the middle of the stage—looking at the audience, almost in fear and apprehension. John nearly scoffs in bewilderment. He looks at Sherlock who is as still as a statue the whole time with eyes fixated on the woman on the stage—who is  _still_ not looking at them.

She starts to sing in that innocent voice again,

 _**"Let me... entertain you...** _  
_**Let me... make you smile..."** _

**"Sing out, Louise!"**

_**"Let me do a few tricks...**_  
_**Some old and then some new tricks...**_  
_**I'm very versatile...**_  
  
_**And if you're real good...**_  
_**I'll make you feel good...**_  
_**I want your spirits to climb...**_  
  
_**So let me... entertain you...**_  
_**And we'll have a real good time, yes sir...**_  
_**We'll... have... a real good time..."**_

The two boys watch as Irene Adler walk through the stage as awkwardly as possible but not overly awkward that it would look unnatural. She looks very much the awkward lanky teenager. John had wanted to applaud her about a hundred times from the past ten minutes alone.

 **"Do something!"**  
**"Dip! Dip!"**

There she is—Irene Adler—dipping frequently in the most gangly awkward teenage fashion.

 **"Take something off."**  
**"Mama?"** Irene Adler asks in that innocent voice John  _cannot_ get over with.  
**"Glove! Give 'em a glove!"**

John smiles as Irene Adler awkwardly and horribly remove her glove—even using her teeth. He has to admit that Irene Adler truly  _is_ a genius when it comes to acting. How can't she? She is a master manipulator.

 **"Say something."**  
**"Hello, everybody. My name is Gypsy Rose Lee... What's yours? Sir?"**

Still. Irene Adler had not looked at them. It would have been the perfect opportunity—she is directly looking at another gentleman in the audience. If she truly is the client, then why isn't she looking at them?

 _Louise_ , who had dropped her glove, bends over to take it from the floor. John tries not to make out anything from this but he swears he had felt Sherlock jump a tiny bit from his seat whilst someone whistles at the bent-over actress. Finally, she stands up again.

 **"Mister Conductor? If you please?**  
_**Let me... entertain you...** _  
_**And we'll have a real good time, yes, sir...** _  
_**We'll... have... a real good time..."** _

She truly is a remarkable actress. She should have taken a career in acting instead of being a dominatrix... Then again, a mind like hers wouldn't settle in by being a mere actress. She wants control.

She leaves the stage, and after a few moments, comes out, wearing a new glittering silver long-sleeved gown.

 _**"Let me... entertain you...** _  
_**Let me... make you smile...** _  
**I'm beginning to like this."**

John Watson tries to conceal the fact that he had just thought that Irene Adler was  _cute_... because Irene Adler is  _not_ cute.

**"Oh, I like that. I think I'll do that again."**

Nope, definitely not cute... but this is  _Louise_ , not Irene Adler.

 **"My mother... who got me into this business... always told me make 'em beg for more... and then don't give it to 'em... But I'm _not_ my mother..."** John smirks. There she is, Irene Adler, slowly removing her gown on stage, but not showing any of her skin since her back is to the audience. **"So, if you beg for more..."**  And she wraps herself again... **"I'll give it to you..."**    
_**And we'll... have... a real good..."**_

With her back facing the audience, she shows off a small area of her shoulders. She comes out of the stage again after a few moments, wearing a green gown and a  _ginormous_ hat.

_**"Let me do a few tricks..."** _

John's brows rise up at the sudden low voice of Irene Adler, and the raised chin he knows only she could pull off. Gypsy Rose Lee—somehow, it feels like he had just watched the progress of how  _the_ Irene Adler was made as well.

 _**"Some old and then some new tricks...** _  
_**I'm very versatile...** _  
**What are you waiting, fellas? I'm sorry I had to have dinner with the Henry Fords. God, I couldn't wait to get home and take my clothes off!... Well?... I'm _hoooomeee_..."**

Hiding her body with that massive hat, she removes her whole gown with one small move... She's emerging— _the_ Irene Adler.

**_"And we'll... have... a real good..."_ **

She leaves once more, and after a few moments, and a few short dances from the ensemble, the curtains opens up to see her in a green sequinned outfit, a cut up her leg, with a poise only someone as elegant as her can truly pull off.

**"Pack up your apples, girls... and back to the trees..."**

Here, John and Sherlock blink at how low her voice had sounded, and how different her acting had become from the innocent geeky teen to this... confident woman... to this—

**"Bonsoir, messieurs... et messieurs..."**

— _Irene Adler_.

There it is. The way she curled her tone, and the way she had looked at the audience—directly at Sherlock—finally confirms John had been thinking and what Sherlock had already concluded an hour ago.

Irene Adler is their client and she is telling them that she is back.

 **"Je m'appelle Gypsy Rose Lee—"** She continues on saying things in French as John turns to look at an unusually stoic Sherlock, staring back at Irene Adler **.**

She continues on with her monologue and dances her way on the stage—making John appreciate the many skills of Irene Adler. No wonder she is such a seductress. She can make you beg for anything just from walking with her hips and shoulders moving like water—gracefully flowing.

She turns around and looks at John, this time. **"Some man accused me of being an ecdysiast."** Her eyes move towards Sherlock once more. **"Do you know what that means?"**

She walks along the stage sideways, moving her hips, smirking at Sherlock. Sherlock smirks back and raises a brow. John turns to look at Sherlock.

 **"Oh, he does?"** Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. **"Oh, don't be embarrassed. I like men** with curly **hair."** [2]

She turns once more and glides along the stage—showing off her back, her legs, her  _everything_.

 **"Don't worry, fellas, I know you're up there!"** she says, pointing up. **"Well, there, you know what ecdysiast means... An ecdysiast is one who sheds its skin... In vulgar parlance, a _stripper_... but fellas, at these prices? I'm an ecdysiast..." **

She moves closer to the front of the stage, and in a stronger voice, she starts to sing.

 _**"So if you're real good...** _  
_**I'll make you feel good...** _  
_**I want your spirits to climb...** _

_**So let me... entertain you...** _  
_**And we'll have a real good time, yes sir...** _  
_**We'll... have... a real good... time...."** _

And at the end of that song, she shows off the familiar 32-24-34, as the lights turn off. Not for the first time, Sherlock claps for Irene Adler, but this time, he is clapping louder than usual. John smirks at his friend. Oh, he is  _sooo_ obvious.

* * *

**SEVENTEEN MINUTES LATER**

The show finally ends... and John claps loudly at everyone's performance... but most definitely, for the dominatrix that had proven she has more talents up her sleeve than mere domination—acting, singing, dancing. She's  _amazing_. No wonder people fall on their knees before her. 

He turns to look at Sherlock who is clapping.

The audience (except Sherlock) stands up as the cast bows—a standing ovation and they deserve it.

And the moment Irene Adler emerges from behind the minor characters, Sherlock finally stands up. Irene Adler bows and looks at Sherlock in the audience—directly in front of where she is—and she smirks.

Irene Adler has returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Line from the Granada Series of Sherlock Holmes: A Scandal in Bohemia.
> 
> Actual lines were: "She had just begun to sing... She has the voice of an angel, Watson."
> 
> [2] Actual lines were: "Oh, don't be embarrassed. I like men without hair."


	2. The Dressing Room

"What are you doing?" John asks as he follows Sherlock walk on the side and jump up the stage before quickly walking through the crew backstage. "Sherlock?" John asks as the others ignore them since they're so busy.

"Meeting with the client," Sherlock replies casually as he moves through the crew as if he is liquid. John manages not to collide with people but there's still the occasional bump here and there.

"Sirs? Excuse me? You're not supposed to be here!" a woman yells behind them.

Sherlock practically runs as he goes through the crowd. People yelp in surprise if Sherlock manages to hit them, and so it became John's job to apologise the whole time as he follows Sherlock, ignoring their shouts about them leaving.

Sherlock seems to know where he is going since he isn't stopping at all—probably not wanting anyone to realise their unwanted presence. To John's relief, they finally arrive in the hallway of the many doors of the dressing rooms. Sighing since they would have to look through each door—since they're all open—John can suddenly hear some laughter—loud laughter and Sherlock seems to move towards its general direction, ignoring the other open doors.

" _Sherlock_!" John scolds. Some people quieten at John's exclamation. He hears whispers about them as well. Oh, so people in America know about them as well, do they? John smiles despite their predicament.

Unfortunately, this mild distraction has proved to be unhelpful since his whole body slams onto the side of Sherlock's since the latter had stopped in the middle of the hallway—facing an open dressing room door.

John peeks into the room to see plenty of women looking at both him and Sherlock. He turns to look at Sherlock. Sherlock is staring at only one person in the room... and the one he is staring at is staring back right at Sherlock.

"You're not allowed here," one of the actresses inside says. "Only the cast and crew are allowed here."

"Please leave immediately," someone says behind them. John sees one of the crew members of the production, panting, and holding onto her knees.

John wanted to lie about being a part of the crew but he and Sherlock are not exactly wearing appropriate clothes as crew members. They stand out here—wearing suits.

Irene Adler stands up and walks towards Sherlock and John. She stops when she is a few feet in front of Sherlock, looking at him straight in the eyes, smirking. "Oh, let them in. We don't mind, do we, girls?" she asks, turning briefly and smirking at the other actresses.

The other actresses give her questioning looks but smile at her antics. Even here, Irene Adler still has the upper hand.

"Fine," the crew member complies with a sigh, "but please go inside. I don't want anyone crowding the hallway."

"Yes, yes, of course, sorry," John apologises almost immediately. He enters the dressing room and stands in one corner. The other actresses watch him like hawks but he ignores them—instead, he watches the two bloody infuriating dark-haired idiots in the room. He noticed that he, as well as the four other actresses in the room have light hair—completely ordinary compared to the two.

"How may I help you," Irene asks Sherlock lowly and seductively, keeping her eyes on his, "Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"You tell me," Sherlock replies just as lowly, and even almost seductively as well.

John shakes his head and turns to the spot in the dressing room with expensive clothing, accessories, and clothing that could only be Irene Adler's.

"So, it's... Lara Norton?" John suddenly asks, looking down at this area in the dressing room with some documents on the table.

John picks up the written documents on the desk that got him to conclude her new alias. Before seeing the word "née." Before anyone else speaks up, John corrects himself, looking up from what he had discovered to see all eyes on him.

"No, er—oh... So, it's Mrs Norton?" John asks, walking closer to the two sociopaths who are still standing close with each other. John also noticed that the other actresses seem to be uncomfortable at the sudden topic.

Irene looks at John for a few moments before replying. "Actually, I just got divorced," she says in a forced tone.

Sherlock looks at Irene—who is still looking at John challengingly, narrowing his eyes for a moment before turning away to move and look around the dressing room—particularly, at Irene's spot.

Irene smirks at once. "What are you doing here?" she asks, looking at both men. The actresses, on the other hand, are content to watch the whole thing in front of them despite being ignored by the other three.

" _You tell me_ ," Sherlock repeats himself much more firmly and lowly, inching closer to the Woman.

"And you're so sure it is I who called you?" Irene asks.

"You were not surprised to see me," Sherlock says and just as Irene opens her mouth to counter his words, he quickly adds, "and you were so sure someone had called us to be here."

"You would not be in New York for any other reason."

"Perhaps we just want to see a Broadway Musical."

"And you wanted to watch Gypsy because...?"

"Can I not watch a Broadway Musical simply because I like it?"

Irene doesn't reply for a while before saying quietly—barely a whisper, "Always a self-portrait."

Sherlock's composed demeanour falters for a moment at the uttered words. Irene's eyes glint at the crack she had made upon the detective's face. John continues to watch the other two, slightly getting annoyed at how this is going to be the longest case of his life. The other actresses watch on—intrigued at their colleague's strange attraction to the man.

They have seen her flirt with other men and women before, of course... but not like this. She had been sweet and soft with her ex-husband and to other people, but to this man... She's a lioness with eyes narrowing down her prey—a lion. They have never seen her with her head this much high before unless she was on stage and acting like Gypsy Rose Lee... or perhaps she  _is_ acting, right now? No, this man looks at her familiarly. Who is he to her?

"I can tell you the same," he replies, raising a brow with his eyes wandering around her whole face.

She stands up straighter and a growing smirk that can resemble a snake's creeps upon her face. "And which one are you referring to?"

"Both," he replies.

Irene hums and finally walks away to where John is standing. She goes on to sit on the chair draped with clothes that John had correctly deduced to be hers and starts to remove the accessories of her character, looking at the detective through the mirror.

"I take it you'll have to talk to me? Privately?" she asks him.

"Of course," he replies.

"And Doctor Watson shall be joining, I assume?" she adds with a small smirk.

"Yes."

"To talk only, of course," John adds almost a bit defensively, mindful of the other actresses with them in the dressing room. He's not risking a rumour where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson is sharing a woman in bed. People always talk, of course.

Irene hums. "And where do you propose to have the consultation?"

"It's your choice," Sherlock starts, "being the client." Irene smirks at that.

"We need to know your why you're consulting with us," John adds, "and who's after you... because we're detectives. That's what we do."

Sherlock and Irene both look at John at that, both not realising that they are both looking at him with a raised brow with Sherlock looking at John as if he is being an idiot and Irene looking at John as if he had fallen under her trap.

"From the description you have told us concerning your stalker, I daresay that person is a formidable one but we need more information," Sherlock suddenly says, making Irene turn away from John to look at Sherlock with a raised brow as well.

"A stalker?" John asks quietly.

"Of course," Irene replies. "For now, all I can say is that I am in dire need of your assistance."

"As expected. You wouldn't make us fly all the way from London for something so trivial."

"What if I did?" Irene asks and Sherlock doesn't speak for a long time. The silence stretches on and everyone else watches the two maintain eye contact.

"John, kindly go to the manager and tell whoever he or she is that you demand to be given  _Lara_ 's timetable and that she may not be performing for an indefinite amount of time," he says snappily, still looking at Irene straight in the eyes.

"Right, er—" John clears his throat—"yeah, I'm on it." With that, the Army Doctor leaves the room.

"Now, if you must, continue on with changing your clothing, you shall expect us outside," Sherlock says, turning and walking towards the door with his hand already by the doorknob.

Irene sits up and tells him, "And why on Earth would I stop performing after I tell you my tale?"

Sherlock pauses and turns to her. "The fact that we had met again will attract your _stalker_ and most likely try harder in grabbing your attention."

"What if he had already made contact?"

"He?" Sherlock asks.

Irene purses her lips, going silent and chastising herself for her own mouth's betrayal. "He," she confirms with her jaws set.

"Then you shall tell me in what form he had made contact. I assume this is not a discussion appropriate to be talked about in a restaurant?"

"No," she replies quietly.

"Then I assume we will be going to your flat?"

"Obviously," she tells him.

Sherlock smirks and opens the door. "We'll be outside. Be quick."

"Do not order me."

Sherlock turns his head to look at her once more. "Do not bid to forbore yourself from what you do not want to eschew."

"I can appreciate how you used pretentious flashy words to hide an order that is simply idiotic."

"Idiotic but appropriate."

Irene tilts her head before turning on her seat and looking at the mirror and continues with disrobing. The other girls raise their brows at her nonchalance at being seen in her underwear by a man without hiding herself. They look to see the man still look at her in the eyes without it drifting downwards. 

"Times change, Mr Holmes." She turns slightly to look at him, only in her underwear.

"People don't."

"You'd be surprised," she replies with a shrug, putting on some civilian clothes.

"Surprise me."

She smiles. "I always do."

"You're confident?"

"I always am."

He chuckles. "You always are." A pause. "I take it I don't have to wait for you?" he asks, looking at her, already finished dressing and grabbing a bag from under the table.

She smirks at his words. "You don't have to... not anymore."

With that, she removes her jacket from the chair and he looks at the chair in surprise. He blinks a few times as she looks at him in confusion before following his gaze to her chair. A dawn of realisation hits her.

"Lara _Wolfe_ ," he says quietly.

"Not Lara Norton anymore. I told you: I'm _divorced_."

His eyes snap to hers and she gives him a predatory smile that had not been present in the past minute.

"Dinner?" she asks, walking to stand beside him as he stands still by the doorway, still looking at the chair.

"I'm not hungry."

"Are you not?" she asks.

His eyes snap up to hers. "I thought you told me this is not a discussion worth discussing in a public area?"

"Who says we'll be eating in a restaurant?"

"Ahhh, yes."

"I'm offended you had forgotten my skills in the art of cooking."

"I assure you I have not."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be..." He gestures to the already opened door. "After you."

"You always are," she whispers, and yet he hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise that this one's a bit short.


	3. The Brief Discussion

After finally managing to convince the manager of the whole production that _Lara_ cannot truly perform for a few weeks, John walks back to the corridor of the dressing room where he left some actresses in the hands of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes and their frustratingly huge amount of alien bickering.

He ponders over this in his head. Sherlock could not have known that it was Irene Adler’s case they were being given. The tickets were given at a perfect time—when there is no time to search more about the play. Irene Adler had done her work beautifully. John rolls his eyes, _of course_ , she would want a grand entrance, and what could be an even grander entrance than suddenly showing up in a Broadway musical as a supporting actress.

Deciding not to get in the dressing room as to not deal with another round of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler showdown, he leans back on the wall beside the door. Just as his back hits the wall, the door to the dressing room opens and out comes Irene Adler.

She walks out with one of her signature smirks and glances at John before passing him by and walking out. After a long moment, Sherlock walks out as well and follows her without  even looking at John. The detective seems to be quick on his feet—quicker than usual—and John manages to walk alongside him (run, more like).

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asks, watching Irene Adler stride in the distance directly in front of them, walking out of the secret backstage door of the theatre as to not be huddled by her fans—which, judging from the applause earlier, she would have. 

Sherlock keeps quiet. 

“Sherlock,” John tries once more, glancing at the detective whose eyes are fixated in front of him and at the same time, very distant.

John looks at what Sherlock is looking and his eyes are fixated on the door.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“What?” Sherlock finally snaps.

“What’s going on?” John asks once more.

“Case,” Sherlock replies.

“I know that but—”

“It seems middle age is not suiting you well, John, if it’s keeping you from thinking like a perfectly sound human being.”

John sighs in annoyance. “Sherlock, you tell me what the bloody hell is going on or I’ll punch your lights out.”

Sherlock stops by the door at this, glancing at John, before opening the door to let them both out and finally slowing to his usual pace. “The woman is being tracked down.”

“By a stalker, you said,” John starts quietly, looking at Irene who is hailing a cab at the opposite side of the street.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “In a way.”

“In a way?”

“You can’t expect us to talk about her case when there are other people around, can you?” Sherlock snaps with a sigh afterwards.

John decides not to comment on how condescending the bastard sounds. “So basically, you two were talking in riddles again.”

“Hardly. It was an obvious conversation.” 

“Well, I’m not a dark-haired dangerous sociopath, am I?” John replies, annoyed.

Sherlock decides to ignore John. “She _is_ being tracked down but not by a stalker, or at least, not by the kind of stalker you are thinking.”

“Powerful government, then?”

“All governments are tracking her down,” Sherlock says with a hint of—

 _Is that pride I’m seeing?_ John thinks.

“But not just governments—agencies, terrorist groups, parts of Moriarty’s old web, although the last part may be less likely since I’ve taken them down when I left for two years by faking my—” Sherlock stops at John’s glare. “Either way, we know that the probable leader of the said group is male—which narrows places down.”

“Why the hell would she live such a difficult life?” John mutters under his breath.

“For fun,” Sherlock comments, making John realise he had said the thing out loud.

“Fun?” John tries to ask but realises that Irene _is_ a sociopath so he really shouldn’t be surprised by her choice of fun.

“What’s fun?” Irene asks when they finally approach her and enters the cab with her. It was a misfortune that John had to sit between her and Sherlock.

“Broadway,” John says to save himself the pain.

“Theatre is always fun. There are lots of things you can do _on stage_ ,” Irene says.

“What sort of things?” John asks before thinking.

“Should I make a list?” Irene asks.

“No, er—no,” John replies, clearing his throat. "How come you've—"

"John, are you really going to continue this horrible attempt of chatting?" Sherlock butts in, glaring at John who glares back.

"I don't think I'm complaining," Irene replies with a raised brow, leaning forward so Sherlock would see her.

" _Horrible_?" John asks. "We barely even started."

"And it would be an even _greater gift_ if you did not continue at all," Sherlock replies.

"Why?" Irene Adler asks cooly.

"Why what?" Sherlock finally addresses her, leaning back and looking out of the window with a sigh.

Irene decides to lean back on her seat as well and addresses John—who is looking at Sherlock curiously—by placing a hand on his arm. "What was your question again, Doctor Watson?"

"How come you've gone to Broadway?" John asks.

"Dear God," Sherlock sulks.

John and Irene ignore him and continue to torture the detective by continuing to talk.

"I like to be on stage," Irene says with a small smile John had never seen before. "I've always loved the stage."

"Attention?" John asks.

Irene raises a brow. "Entertainment," she replies. "Some people say something unlocks within a person when they go through theatre."

"And did something unlock in you when you're up there?" John asks.

"It's not always the actors and actresses that get unlocked. It is always the audience," she answers with a small gleam in her eye.

 _Even in the theatre, she wants to take control, of course,_ John thinks, almost rolling his eyes at himself for his stupidity.

"You said you've _always_ loved the stage."

"I have."

"A trained actress since youth, then?" John asks.

Irene raises a brow at John. Unbeknownst to them, Sherlock had smirked slightly at John's _deduction_.

Irene nods. "And trained singer," Irene adds in a way John can only describe as proud.

"Why didn't you take that as your initial career?" John asks.

Irene raises a brow at him. "Taking information about me, are you, Doctor Watson?" She smirks.

"We're just having a perfectly normal conversation," John replies.

"Are we?"

John, to be perfectly honest, will probably never trust Irene. In a sense that he will never be sure of her motives and he will never know if she is plotting something behind her back as she had done before. What marvels him is the fact that he cannot trust Sherlock when it concerns her either—look at the trouble Sherlock had almost brought to the nation because of his blindness towards her. John shakes his head at the thought...

Sherlock Holmes blinded by Irene Adler.

She really did beat him, didn't she?

Irene, in turn, may never trust John either—or not wholly. She can always trust his dedication and loyalty to Sherlock, and she will always trust that the army doctor will always choose Sherlock over her. It could prove useful in the future... if ever... She shakes her head at the thought. She can never trust John Watson about her but she can always trust the doctor about  _him_. John Watson will be a good ally in her own motives.

Sherlock resents both of these two because he believes they are chatting to make him feel bad. He shakes his head at the horror of John and the woman teaming up against him. The woman will be relentless in her teasing. The irritation will rise up to a maximum if it ever comes to that point.

"We're here," the driver says after ten minutes of silence—unless you count the typing on the keyboard of a phone silent. John had shaken his head plenty of times, thinking he is in a cab ride with two teenagers.

After Irene pays for the cab ride (since John left his wallet in the hotel he and Sherlock were staying—and he had probably not changed his pounds to dollars yet—and Sherlock did not have a smaller bill for the cab driver to give enough change), John gets out of the cab to see a modest looking flat in a quiet street.

Irene walks up to the small gate and opens it for the two men to enter.

"Brooklyn Heights," Sherlock tells no one, looking at the brownstone terrace houses.

John hums in reply as they all walk up the steps to the door of the house. Irene opens the door and John raises a brow at the simplicity of the place—in perfect contrast to her flat back in Belgravia. It's still the same composition inside—light, white, beige, and mostly made of wood. Still, it's much more— _homey_ could only be the right term—than her flat in London.

"Please... Make yourself at home," Irene tells them both, going to the kitchen as soon as she had removed her boots— _boots with less heels than she usually wears_ , John just notices—and coat on the coatrack beside the door. Both John and Sherlock watch her move from one door to the next and hear her go around her flat. 

Sherlock ignores the fact that he still notices the fact that she has admirably high arches, or the fact that she walks noiselessly as she takes a step with the balls of her feet first rather than a heel... as if she is tip-toeing—trained dancer, he will never forget. Sherlock shakes his head. 

 _'Will never forget?'_ he scoffs to himself.

Without another word to John, Sherlock walks through the small corridor and into the first door nearest to them—the living room. Once more, John crashes on the back of Sherlock who had abruptly stopped by the doorway to assess the place.

_**??? ??? ???** _

_Still nothing_ , Sherlock thinks to himself with a small growl of annoyance.

With that, Sherlock moves to go to the white couch in the middle of the room and drops on it immediately, crossing his legs, and seems to be waiting patiently.

John, on the other hand, decides to go through the room and look at the books on the shelves—surprised to see some normal-looking books like classic novels with a few romance novels in between books about theatre and music, before chastising himself. Irene would have had to bring someone inside her flat at some point—whether a friend or something else—she had to look the part of a normal citizen residing in New York.

Irene walks in once more wearing simple black jeans—which still manage to hug her shapely legs perfectly—and a dark green silk blouse that seems to match Sherlock's own dark green silk shirt. The two morons probably had not noticed Irene's subconscious choice of clothing. Her hair which was already let down, is much tamer than a few minutes ago, showing off her locks in a much more pleasing manner.

"So, who's after you?" Sherlock finally breaks the silence just as she enters the room, mirroring his own words from years ago.

She stays on one side by the doorway but not leaning on it, simply looking at the two men in her living room but she doesn't answer quickly. She pauses by the doorway for a few more moments, looking at Sherlock briefly, before slowly moving towards the fireplace in front of the couch—directly in front of Sherlock—and crossing her arms in her subtle form of defence and hiding of vulnerability.

"Your _stalker_ —who's after you?" Sherlock asks once more.

Her voice starts off quietly. "There are plenty of people who—"

"Yes, but you said ' _he_ ,'" Sherlock points out. "You already confirmed the culprit to be male."

Irene sighs and walks towards the window. John would have laughed at how dramatic she is being but held his tongue at the uncharacteristically solemn look upon her features. 

He decides to continue to stay quiet, sitting down on the armchair in the corner of the room which John suspects could only be the place where Irene spends her time reading—judging from the easy access to the bookshelf as well as the placement of the lamp. He continues to watch the two and is determined not to interrupt unless needed.

"It has been almost a year since I decided to stay here in Brooklyn Heights," Irene starts. John notices that Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at that. "It's the longest stay I've ever had since... since London," she says the last word almost dreamily. "It had been a tame process. Before staying here," she continues, "I've jumped from one country to the next. It became much more random and the stays became shorter after a few years of slow migration. I had thought people were tracking me down again... Since then, I had basically lived as a gypsy."

John snorts at that. Irene is now playing the role of Gypsy Rose Lee and to hear her admitting that she had lived as a gypsy herself. What was it she had said all those years ago?

> _"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes? However hard you try it's always a self-portrait."_

"That type of living started after—" Irene smirks and pauses, making John attentive and Sherlock raise his brow—"after Montenegro."

John manages to witness Sherlock blink once and the detective's attentiveness slacker for a moment but it was quickly replaced by the usual mask of indifference Sherlock had probably perfected since he was born. For now, he files the information away for later.

"I've walked away and had been cautious on my whereabouts for some time before I noticed that there had been a decrease of immediate threat on being chased down." Sherlock opens his mouth at this but Irene cuts him off, "Yes, Mister Holmes, I had been very thorough on whether I was being chased."

"Had you?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes," she replies almost glaringly. John couldn't see what Irene's face is doing right now but he almost laughs at the short amount of wariness upon Sherlock's face. "Anyway, the news of my death had been spreading widely and as I said, there had been a decrease of immediate threat on the exaggeration of my supposed demise. Slowly, the stays got longer and longer until I had reached New York." She gestures around her flat at the mention of the city. "The name Irene Adler is officially dead in the minds of the chasers. I knew I was off the radar. I officially became Lara Nor—Lara _Wolfe_."

"But?" Sherlock asks, trying not to show his discomfort at the last part of her explanation.

"But something happened."

" _He_ made contact, you said," Sherlock says.

"Yes," Irene says in a forced tone and doesn't continue.

"Care to elaborate?" John encourages the sociopath softly to talk to the other sociopath in the room.

 _I'm probably a sociopath myself if I'm letting myself deal with all this shit,_ John thinks to himself.

"I assume this _he_ had made first contact and is now the sole reason of the ignition of you being chased down once more," Sherlock replies.

"Yes."

"How did he contact you?"

* * *

**P R E V I O U S  
**

"Alright! That was a good run, everybody! A good run! Technical Team, you, guys, are getting better but I can still hear and see some delays on the lights and sounds. I don't want any embarrassing delays on the next runs, are we clear? Good. Orchestra, well done, beautiful playing, but can you lower it down a bit. You're over-powering the actors voices. At one point, Ms Combe, Ms Gold, and Ms Legrand [1] were yelling their parts and I started fearing for their vocal chords. Are we clear? Yes, good, thank you."

As they listen to the stage manager and several of the crew talk about the mistakes in the run, one of the crew quietly runs towards Irene.

"Ms Wolfe?" she whispers.

"Yes, what is it?" Irene asks in a whisper.

"There's a phone call for you," she replies.

"Alright," Irene says, raising her hand to take the phone.

"No, it's er—it's on the landline," the girl says meekly.

Irene blinks a few times before standing up from the seats in the audience after a small nod of permission from the production manager and heading towards the back of the theatre to take the phone call.

"Hello?" she asks.

"Good evening, Miss Adler."

* * *

**P R E S E N T**

"Ever since then, many had grown suspicious and word of my survival went around like a cancer... which is impressive, knowing that it's only been a few days—barely half a week, really."

"When did he made contact?" Sherlock decides to ask.

"Three days ago," Irene replies.

"And you didn't contact _us_ sooner because...?" Sherlock asks in a slightly accusing tone if John was to be honest.

"Because I had other things to handle first."

John narrows his eyes. "You always handle yourself first," he says, making Irene turn away from the window and towards him. John would say that she almost looks hurt from his comment.

"Some things are to be handled first before I could make the first move."

John nods. "Like finding a body to fake your death," he replies, slightly glancing at Sherlock.

Irene turns away once more to look outside of the window. "Yes... Something like that."

"So who _is_ he?" Sherlock asks impatiently.

"It's your sibling."

Sherlock looks up at that in a way John could only describe as alert.

"Eurus?" John asks, straightening up on his seat in alarm.

"She said ' _he_ ,' John," Sherlock reminds him.

John shakes his head from his stupidity. "Oh, right, of course."

"Yes, I _was_ informed about your long-lost sister," Irene continues.

"Mycroft told you about her?" John asks.

"Yes," Irene replies before sighing, "it seems a lot was discovered from your... predicament with your sister."

John pales. "That phone call..."

> _"So who loves you? I'm assuming it's not a long list."_   
>  _"Irene Adler."_

_t was my fault. Mycroft was there, and I blabbed about her. I was the one who let Mycroft know about her_ , John thinks to himself.

"...with Molly—" John continues to whisper but stops upon Sherlock's glare at the reminder of that horrible phone call.

He looks at Irene who is looking back at him calculatingly before sighing and saying, "Because you told Mycroft, I've been exposed." She turns to look at Sherlock, finally looking at him in the eye. "I'm hiring you to find out who's after me."

"I thought Mycroft was the one after you?" John asks.

"Mycroft was the ignition—the hairspray to the spark," Sherlock says, finally talking. John looks at him oddly. "Mycroft had already known you were alive," he informs, finally addressing Irene again.

Irene's eyes widen for a fraction but easily masked once more. "Since when?" she asks quietly.

"Most likely for a very long time."

"Why now?"

Sherlock turns his head to look at the window. "Eurus," he whispers to himself but everyone else hears him. John straightens up at that and Irene surprisingly looks like she is confused for the first time since John had met her. Sherlock, ignoring the reaction of the other two, stands up from the couch and fixes his collar. "We have to go back to London."

"I _hired you_ for this case," Irene says.

"I said _we_ have to go back to London," Sherlock says, walking towards Irene and removing almost all space between them. 

They look at each other for almost forever as Irene's jaw clench uncharacteristically. Is it John's imagination or is Irene Adler much more open with her emotions nowadays?

She moves back away from him. "How long?" she asks.

"Leaves in eight hours. Pack up everything and be quick," Sherlock says, turning towards the door.

"You cannot just order me around," Irene says stoically, standing her ground.

"I am not ordering you around," Sherlock says, still not turning.

"Yes, you are," Irene says. John supposes that if Irene Adler was a perfectly normal human being, she would be ripping Sherlock to shreds in anger. "You cannot attempt to control my life this way."

At that, Sherlock turns around almost as if someone had punched him in the face. "I never—"

"—which is why I had already booked my own flight earlier and cancelled the one you gave me," she replies. "I leave in three hours."

With that, she walks towards the door, passing by Sherlock whose eyes had followed her movement, looking at her almost in admiration if it wasn't for the bewildered and slightly irritated look in his eye.

"Er," John starts, standing up, "when did you—were you rescheduling our flight in the cab earlier?"

Sherlock doesn't answer him but simply walks through the doorway and leaves Irene's flat.

John was lucky to manage to chase after him and enter the cab before Sherlock leaves him to his own again. God knows what would happen to him being left alone in America without his wallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In Gypsy the Musical, the characters Tessie Tura, Mazeppa, and Electra sing the song "You Gotta Get a Gimmick." In the West End Production of Gypsy in 2015 (the same one Lara plays Gypsy Rose Lee), the characters are placed by Anita Louise Combe, Louise Gold, and Julie Legrand respectively.


End file.
